The Potential for HP Puns is Overwhelming
by LazyGeek
Summary: Stiles goes off his meds... and he thinks he might be a wizard. Or Pocahontas. It's probably the former. /Stiles-centric, featuring Papa Stilinski and mentions the Pack. Rated T for language.


Summary:_ Stiles goes off his meds... and he thinks he might be a wizard. Or Pocahontas. It's probably the former._

Warnings: coarse language and absurdity.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Teen Wolf, at all. There would be so much more Sterek if I did.

Side Note: What have I done? This is such utter crack. No other word. Just. Crack.

Enjoy!

* * *

Maybe, like, a year, approximately, after Stiles' best bro Scott was a one-night werewolf chew toy—and then became a werewolf himself, throwing them both into this Wonderland of not-so-much wonders as it were freakish, nightmare monsters from hell—Stiles went off his medication.

Well, that wasn't the complete truth about it. Actually, he had upped his medication, popping Adderall like chocolate-covered raisins (because, fuck, those things were both delightful and his main choice for stress-eating, besides curly fries), when the whole werewolf deal had first begun. Because even Stiles, though a manly source of stark manliness, had needed some help focusing whilst being frantically chased in the woods, running for his miserable _what-is-my_-life-_even _ from some blood-thirsty, bloodstained, bloodlusting, blood-foaming-at-the-mouth, bloody blood _blood _creature of horror, which Stiles had only just previously thought didn't exist. If there was anything in the world that made one loose judgment and concentration, no matter how definitely manly, it was definitely sheer terror. Sheer terror plus running.

So, in the first few months Stiles had taken more pills than what had been previously prescribed. At the time, more meds had been a necessary decision. He couldn't fail Scott (or his own mortality, for that matter). He had needed, and still needed, to stay alive, if not for himself, then for Scott and his dad. But, really, mostly for himself. Stiles liked himself, especially intact, and not, like, with his innards scattered across the forest floor.

Ergo, more Adderall. More focus. Less bloody Stiles carcass.

Simple math, very understandable.

The medication ingested per day had reached its peak alongside the ever-heightening violence and general cray-cray that surrounded Stiles and Scott (and Allison, Derek, his newly-turned puppy pack, and others) on a daily basis. So, like, four or five months in.

Those days had been the fucking worst. Not only had he faced the prospect of mutilation and death probably every other day, but the gut-wrenching fear and anxiety that went with it had been almost unbearable. The idea that maybe Scott could be found out, that his dad could receive a call on his night off about his son's shredded corpse-_fuck_, even something terrible happening to _Derek_, of all fucking people, had set Stiles' teeth on edge. Because any of those god awful things could have happened, or may even still happen, and that thought stole all the breath from Stiles lungs. Panic attacks, while never welcome, had visited him frequently.

The Adderall had helped some, but the large allotment of medication had been too much sometimes. It had buzzed around in his skin, like angry bees stinging their way out of his pathetic meat sack of a body, and had lit up his brain until he had been sure the inside of his skull resembled Christmas lights. Or fireworks. The extra pills had made him simultaneously brilliant and horrible. He sometimes had had the shakes, all jittery, but he hadn't cared much. He had been godlike-all water, earth, fire, air—he had been the freakin' Avatar, and men such as Avatar Stiles had to ignore their troubles, putting others before himself.

All in all, he had been just trying to be a decent fucking human being, because he was apparently one of the last in his circle of friends (most of whom were not _human_). So what if he had sometimes seen things that hadn't been there exactly? Technically, he saw things everyday that shouldn't really exist in a world of logic and reason and not-fairytales. No biggie.

Shockingly, it had been Erica who had approached him on the matter.

Having been a former epileptic, the blonde bombshell knew a thing or two about medication and, more importantly, the proper intake of given serious medication. She had said something about him smelling more and more like a hospital, but Stiles had had the feeling that she had just been watching him, observing his pill usage. She wouldn't have admitted though, of course. Too strong and bitchy, now. Nevertheless, what surprised Stiles even more had been her reasoning in lessening the meds; in that, there had been none. She had just sort of came up to him, told him about his stank, that she knew about his extra mojo, and ordered that he stopped.

"Stop," she had said and then walked away.

Totally unprovoked, totally uncalled for.

Probably not _totally _unnecessary.

So, Stiles had toned it down, settling back into his old prescription, a bitch in itself, as he went through a minor withdrawal but overall not so very, very bad.

Coincidentally or not (Stiles didn't know the universe, he couldn't judge) the lessening of medication had coincided with a decrease in supernatural tomfoolery/holy-fuck-run-for-your-life occurrences. Which had made it easier to need fewer pills per day, and Stiles had thanked his lucky Stilinski stars for _that_.

But after a while, the old prescription hadn't felt like it wasn't enough. Rather, like it _was _enough. Too much of enough.

Then, well, his intake had become less. Fewer? One of those.

Focusing on a lower dosage every week had replaced his need for concentration enhancers, almost distracting him from his ADHD, if such a thing were possible and didn't sound completely preposterous. The thing was, Stiles had known how utterly ridiculous it was, and every morning when he ignored the white bottle of Adderall, waiting at his desk, all he could think had been, '_This is a very, very bad idea._'

Now, Stiles was completely off his medication, had been for almost eight days, and he still could not get over what an idiot he was being. A part of him felt lighter, but there was also the weird jumpiness in his chest. Sounds were everywhere, colors felt more boisterous, and he thought he sensed a strange energy in the wind.

Sweet Moses, he was Pocahontas.

He flopped on his bed, stressing and flailing over the fact that he was a moron and that his dad would kill him if he found out. Maybe Scott would too.

This was a monstrously bad idea.

The worst idea to end all terrible ideas.

A catastrophe waiting to happen.

This was the apocalypse, and Stiles was just letting it—

The clattering noise of his window being practically torn open quickly caught his attention. His first instinct screamed, "Derek!" and then the second one was yelling orders about duck and cover, because there was no way that the grumpy Alpha would rip his window open like that without being in some sort of homicidal rage.

Only, seconds passed, but... no Derek. No Erica or Isaac or Boyd. Or Jackson. Not even Scott.

Nothing. No one. Just an open window.

A window that opened itself.

"_Holy fuck_," Stiles breathed, the words clawing their way out of his lungs.

Who... or what _did that?_

* * *

A few minutes later, after his supposed best friend refused to pick up his phone _once again_, Stiles decided to try something. He was already stuck on his mattress, frozen out of fear, so why not experiment?

He directed his gaze to his desk.

Nothing happened.

He narrowed his eyes.

Nada.

After a semi-frustrated, mainly bemused huff of self-deprecation and embarrassment, he tried again.

And because this whole thing was stupidly silly anyway, he hummed a few lines of "Be Our Guest."

* * *

The dancing pencils, eraser, and godforsaken pill bottle were enough to make him shriek.

'Cause.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

* * *

Stiles was waiting in the living room, sitting straight-rod and dazed on the sinking, worn out couch, when his father came home from work. Understandably, he was in a bit of a haze and didn't register his dad's arrival until the man called out a greeting.

"Hey, Stiles."

The teenager blinked, gathering himself from his reverie to just glimpse at his dad heading for the dining room, adjacent to the living room. There was the light thump of his father's jacket being tossed on the table, and Stiles couldn't help but be pulled back into his memories, of when his mother was still alive and used to constantly scold him for his bad habit. Personally, Stiles had never seen what the big deal was about it, until he was old enough to start taking on chores, which included laundry and cleaning, and he noticed how filthy that jacket could get. Seriously, for a sheriff of a (previously) sleepy town such as Beacon Hills, the man could get a coat dirty really easily. Sometimes, it was dirt or mud, sometimes spit from an unruly arrest, and those few but oh-so gut-wrenching times there had been blood decorating the worn, beige thing. Well, he supposed he could be thanking that jacket a little, grudgingly, for the practice in removing blood stains. Who would have thought that would have been an essential life skill to have now? Seriously, how fucked up—

"Stiles!"

He looked up.

Okay.

Yeah, well. Maybe the fact that the coat in question was now floating to the closet, politely hanging itself on a goddamn plastic hanger, was a little bit more fucked up than difficult stain removal.

It—just. Yeah.

The Sheriff was now standing at the threshold of the living room, hands on his hips and an interesting expression playing out on his face. Not surprise _exactly_, but... concern? Concerned surprise? Almost as if...

As if the whole floating jacket deal wasn't what was worrying him most.

Holy.

Wizard.

Batman.

(Maybe he should start saying things like, "Merlin's beard!" Would that be more accurate?)

Because Stiles was a fucking wizard.

And his dad _totally knew_.

_That_—

He _knew!_

"So, um, Dad," he started, leaning forward on his elbows, propped on top of his knees, "is there anything you want to, you know... share, _hmm?_"

* * *

Sighing, as if this was troublesome for _only him_, his dad sat next to his son on the couch.

"You stopped taking your medication." Sheriff tone, so it wasn't a question.

Stiles had to roll his eyes at that one. Really? Was that really the issue right now? "If I had known wizard powers were involved..."

Another sigh. "You're not—" he scrubbed a hand over his face. "_Warlock._ You're a warlock. Not wizard. Just—warlock. For some reason. Your mother had been very clear on that."

Well, if that wasn't enough to pique Stiles' interest, nothing would. "Mom?" he demanded, voice rising. "I got this from mom? Mom was a _witch?_"

His father's eyes softened, like they always did when his mother was mentioned. "Yeah, she was." His tone was all affection.

Stiles almost hated what he had to say next. "So, what, you've been keeping drugged? _Doped?_ Restraining my awesome wizar—_warlock _powers?" His eyes widened at the thought. "Oh, whoa! Am I, like, super powerful or prophesied or something? Am I the magic messiah? The Chosen One? Do I have to take down a snake-faced man—because, I gotta tell ya, I've already kind of done that. Well, lizard man, but, you know, reptilian, at least—"

"I haven't been _drugging _you," his father cut in, his voice weary but his eyes sharp. "Well, not really. And no, you're not a messiah. It's..." The ever-present sigh made its way back into the conversation. "Look, from what your mom told me, before... before she died, people like you—warlocks and witches—don't come into your powers until you're of age, usually from sixteen until early twenties. But that doesn't mean that the, the _magic_ isn't still there. Supposedly, it can manifest in several different ways, and for you it was a lot of extra, pent-up energy. Caused a shorter attention span, less control on impulses... you know the rest."

Boy, did he ever.

So, this was his life.

"What you're essentially telling me," Stiles started, leaning back fully into the sofa, "is that my ADHD is actually magic, which was somehow also coincidentally controlled with Adderall. That I'm magic, and so was Mom. That I have super cool magical powers. Also, warlock, not wizard. And no wiz—_damnit_, warlock messiah."

His dad sort of just sat there, assessing Stiles' reaction, nodding once in a jerky acquiescence.

Stiles couldn't help it.

He laughed.

He laughed and laughed and laughed, until his stomach began to hurt. Until his dad finally joined in with him.

"This is the weirdest conversation we have ever had!"

His father snorted wildly at that. "This even tops the 'Hershey Park erection talk' we had when you were nine."

Stiles only sobered up slightly at _that _reminder and defended himself. "_Hey_, it is only natural to get excited when you see a store stocked entirely of only Reese's peanut buttercups. My body just got confused as to the type of excitement."

More snorting.

And then they were hugging.

Which, weird segue, but Stiles would take it.

* * *

Some time later, maybe an hour, they were sitting down to dinner when Stiles thought, '_oh, what the hell,_' now was as good a time as any, and asked:

"So, Dad, now that we've covered the warlock thing, what do you know about _werewolves?_"

* * *

LALALA, HOPE YOU HAD FUN

Also, please note that I'm not trying to suggest that people (or even fictional Stiles) should get off medications, if they are on any. That could be dangerous, people. Magic powers will probably almost definitely not be the outcome of that situation. This was just a nonsense little thing I wrote at, like, 1am.


End file.
